


Swan Songs

by Shiromisa



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Definitely Not A Lightsaber, Found Family, Gen, Rating May Change, Space Battles, Swordfighting, and then a scifi horror, and there will be angst, black swan (twrp), flashback sads, he's not actively suicidal but he doesn't care if he doesn't come back from this one, i don't plan on getting too graphic but there may be violence, looks at twrp like do not separate them, lost family, mild body horror, slight tw for suicidal implications, space swords, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known via the medium of tea, talkbox laughs, wherein the fic briefly becomes a Star War, whoops i separated them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiromisa/pseuds/Shiromisa
Summary: After the death of one of their own breaks up the band of brothers, Lord Phobos is tasked by the Galaxy Queen with a dangerous mission: find and capture the mysterious assassin who's gunning for her life. Without his best friends beside him, Phobos is unsure whether this mission will be his last--but if it gives him the chance to avenge his fallen comrade, he's willing to try.(Based on Black Swan from the new album Over the Top, except Daniel Sexbang is Sir Not Appearing In This Fic)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! I haven't published a fic in over a decade, but well, Black Swan is my fourth most played song after a week and it shows. Not much to say except I hope you enjoy, and if I got anything wrong as far as tagging/etc please let me know!

The Galaxy Queen. A figure of power--no, legend. She was as close to a goddess as was possible for a mortal to meet. Effectively immortal, she had taken herself out of the public eye centuries ago, preferring to send trusted emissaries to carry out her will. She was decisive, efficient, effective, and most importantly, kind. Under her benevolent wings the galaxy had flourished since time immemorial--no war, no famine, no major conflict. No scarcity. It was as close to a utopia as most beings could dream of, gently guided by the hand of a matriarch most never even knew existed. Even now, knelt before her throne, the legendary space knight could not bring himself to raise his eyes--setting eyes upon her even with permission would feel vaguely sacreligious, somehow.

Yet when that melodic voice rang out “rise, Lord Phobos,” he had to obey. He stood, slowly and with great trepidation--deriving some small measure of reassurance from his helmet, paltry barrier though it may be.

“Thank you for answering my call,” that voice, like comfort and music and warmth and home, continued. “I assure you, I would not have called upon you in any but the most dire of circumstances.”

“I understand, your Majesty,” Phobos nodded. “It is my honor to be of service to you.”

She rose from her throne and moved closer to him, the attendants on either side of her following a pace behind. She was tall, taller than most beings in the galaxy, and her skin and hair were dark as the night sky, dotted with constellations of tiny shimmering stars. Some said she _was_ the galaxy, made manifest into a woman, and should anything happen to her it would wink out of existence. Certainly no one living knew when she’d been born, or how. Her curly hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple, unassuming silver gown, framed with feathered wings as bright as solar fire. If not for his visor, it would have burned his eyes to behold her.

She radiated an aura of perfect peace, perfect composure, perfect love. Her eyes, gently shifting like the surface of a blue-white star, fixed on him with the softness of a mother regarding a favored son. “I’ve called you here,” she began, “because I have been made aware of a coming attempt on my life.”

Phobos couldn’t stop a gasp from escaping his lips. The Queen nodded in agreement. “An unprecedented event, as I’m sure you know. I could scarcely believe it myself.” She paused, closing her eyes. “We haven’t been able to discover the identity of the assassin, but his code name is Black Sky. He’s extremely skilled at what he does, and dangerous. A credible threat, one that must be handled with care.”

When she opened her eyes again, they were filled with sorrow. “It hurts me to know I’ve failed one of my citizens, Lord Phobos. I’ve selected you for this mission because I know you can be trusted to bring him in alive and well--and then perhaps I can begin to understand where I’ve gone wrong.”

Phobos was quietly stunned at all of this. It was unthinkable from start to finish, that anyone would go so far as to want to _kill_ the Queen, and that he had been deemed the most capable to apprehend them.

He’d been in quiet semi-retirement for many years now, as had Commander Meouch and Havve Hogan. After the _Incident,_ they’d just...broken. Drifted apart. One day Havve had just stopped answering their calls, and Phobos hadn’t seen or heard from him since--and with the remaining two stressed and upset, it was only a matter of time before a small disagreement turned into a shouting match. Tears had been shed. Accusations hurled that couldn’t be taken back. Phobos didn’t like to think about it too closely these days. No regrets. Just keep moving forward. He tried to do good, where he could. It’s what Sung had always wanted from them. _Just do your best,_ he’d always said. _If we can make the world even a little bit better, it’s worth it, right guys?_ And he always was. 

Until he wasn’t.

But there was no time to dwell on that for the moment. Phobos pushed it from his mind and nodded. “I won’t fail, your Majesty.”

A smile spread over her face like a sunrise after a long night. “Thank you, Lord Phobos. I leave the job in your capable hands.”

One of her attendants came forward and handed him a data stick. “This is all the information we have on Black Sky,” they explained. 

He nodded, thanked them, bowed to the Queen, and left.

Once back in his ship, he inserted the data stick into the console. Windows began popping up on screen--maps, documents, photographs, victims, last whereabouts. Phobos wondered who was pulling their strings--the past marks seemed to lack any kind of political pattern or motive, and his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the senseless. Finally he sighed and pushed his chair back from his console, pacing across the room to make a coffee to drink while he continued to mull it over.

As he waited for the brew, his memory drifted back to before, to the heartache that had been creeping around the edges of his mind since it surfaced earlier. He’d done his best to bury it, but some wounds never truly healed. You never got over the loss of a man as close to a brother as...well. As you’d had in a long time.

* * *

The job had been deceptively simple, but simple jobs were good sometimes. It didn’t always have to be a huge dramatic space battle. In this case, it was a distress call from a stranded ship. Their engine had blown in a remote quadrant, and of course TWRP was happy to help them out. With Sung and Havve’s mechanical expertise they’d have the crew on their way in a jiffy.

The craft had been dark--they’d supposed the crew was conserving as much power as they could, not knowing when a rescue might come--and eerily quiet. Without the comforting chugs and whirrs of machinery, though, that was somewhat to be expected.

What was not expected, however, was the emptiness.

TWRP never came armed on these sorts of missions. There was no need, and with weapons came the possibility of frightening already-stressed crews. Why would they take the risk?

Yet Phobos had wished, half-guiltily, that he had a laser at his side as he walked through the deserted hallways with his best friends, calling for anyone who might be there. Had they already been rescued, and forgotten to turn the beacon off as they left? Maybe they were all gathered together, finding comfort in numbers.

They’d never seen it coming, when it came.

A dark mass, glowing a dull malevolent green shot with veins of fuchsia, had covered the bridge. Every surface was coated in it, a thick sticky coat of ooze clinging in uneven lumps--and Phobos’ breath had caught in his throat as he recognized the shapes of some of those lumps. A hand broke the surface, its wedding ring half-corroded by the acidic goo.

And then he screamed as he saw what else it had caught in its oily tide.

Sung always took point. Always. He’d said it was his job--he brought them all here, and by the stars he’d keep them safe. He’d been turned to call over his shoulder, responding to some affectionate roast Meouch had just lobbed at him--Meouch was always the one to keep their spirits up when things got a little dicey, the big friendly lovebug that he was--not watching where he was going.

Before any of them could react, Sung had stepped ankle-deep into the goo. There was a moment where all four of their worlds stood still, frozen and silent--and then Sung pushed them away with both hands and screamed “GO.”

There were times when Sung just knew what people needed. A kind word, a hug, a moment alone. A good meal with friends. And in this moment, he knew in his heart that he was lost, and what his family needed most in the universe was to get gone. The mass grabbed him by the foot and _tugged,_ and again he screamed, “GO. NOW.”

The panic in his voice broke them. Sung was never scared when it mattered--at a video game or slasher movie, sure, but never had he shown fear when they were in the field. That was what convinced Phobos, because the only thing that could have frightened Sung that much was his friends’ imminent death.

Grabbing both his brothers’ shirts to pull them with, he ran.

* * *

The insistent chime of the coffee maker pulled him out of the memory, and as he looked sourly down at the dark surface of the liquid, he rather found he’d lost his appetite. He dumped the coffee and grabbed an energy drink from the fridge instead, cracking it open as he sank back down into his chair and leaned forward to re-immerse himself in the data. Coordinates. Death certificates. Firsthand accounts. There were so many. He leaned his forehead on the heel of his hand and sighed softly, shoulders sagging--in his heart of hearts, he wasn’t sure if he was up to this assignment. It’d been so long--too long--since he did more than get the proverbial kitten out of the proverbial tree, and even in his prime this was the sort of thing the team had handled--not him solo. This was looking more and more like a suicide mission for him.

And he was suddenly struck by how little he cared about that.

The screen by his bowed head crackled, breaking his reverie: incoming transmission from a callsign he didn’t recognize. Humming softly in confusion, he hit accept--and a dark silhouette filled his console, the many screens each showing a piece of the whole. He rolled back slightly to take in the whole picture. The figure had a standard body plan (four limbs, one head, bilateral symmetry) but was shrouded entirely in darkness with their features hidden.

Or so he thought--until the whole figure sparked with energy, radioactive green and toxic fuchsia arcing over their form, lichtenberg figures chasing each other down the dark limbs.

The colors that Phobos saw in all his worst guilt-fueled nightmares.

And then he saw red.

The unknown entity laughed derisively. “You? You, they’ve sent?” Their voice was distorted oddly. A sharp metallic buzz suffused the words, as if the transmission came from far enough away to degrade the signal quality. “How _funny.”_

As Phobos drew breath to retort, the figure continued with amusement. “I wonder if you’re half the man you used to be. Let’s see if your legend is still true, space knight.”

The connection cut, leaving an insignia of a darkened, starless night sky split with a lone ship for a moment before it faded.

Phobos came back to himself as if waking from a dream, every muscle in his body bowstring-taut, and found his fists were clenched. The horrified shock on Sung’s face as the ooze grabbed his leg burned behind his eyes. “I’ll avenge you,” he promised his fallen brother softly, as he squared back up to the console and began to trace the signal’s origin.

“This time, I'm not running.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Phobos is on Black Sky's trail, but the assassin seems to have his own agenda and an eerie ability to predict his every move. Will Phobos be able to avenge his best friend? Or is there more to the story...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my fiance for helping out with this one, because space battles are not my area of expertise--but thankfully, they are his! His crash course in How To Space Fight 101 was a huge help in writing this chapter, but any errors or awkwardness are all mine. Also, please mind the updated tag list!

Phobos had never been the tech wizard on the team--that honor went to Havve, who would plug himself directly into the ship’s mainframe and sit motionless for hours, staring into space at 0’s and 1’s no one but himself could see. He could work miracles given a compatible port and half an hour’s time. These days Phobos did his best, out of necessity, but he’d never have the effortless aptitude the cyborg did. Thankfully, it looked like he didn’t need it this time.

He threw himself into the chase with a fervor he hadn’t felt in years. After years of drifting aimlessly without his friends to guide him, he finally had a direction--and with it came something like hope. The assassin most certainly had something to do with the black sludge that had doomed Sung, and therefore bringing him to justice would be avenging his best friend as well. That was as good as he could hope for.

But maddeningly, his quarry was continually one step ahead of him, from the tiny half-razed moon where he’d finally triangulated the transmission to a string of less-populated outer rim worlds where he’d turned up to cause chaos. He left a trail of mayhem in his wake, a clear path of destruction and petty cruelty with lots of witnesses--highly visible, and more importantly, highly out of character based on the information from the Galaxy Queen. 

_He’s toying with me,_ Phobos thought grimly. As if the assassin was having a laugh at his expense. He clearly wanted to be chased, but that was fine with Phobos. He had no intention of backing down now.

However, it bothered him how well Black Sky seemed to be able to read him. Maybe he had absorbed some of Sung’s memories somehow, or perhaps he knew TWRP by reputation. Certainly the all-consuming goo hadn’t seemed intelligent when they encountered it all those years ago, but stranger things had happened in the universe. A colony of microbes or fungus that gained sapience once it had achieved sufficient population would be far from the oddest thing the team had encountered in their collective career--and not for the first time, he sorely wished they were there with him, offering suggestions and expertise and, most of all, the easy companionship they’d shared. When they were all together, there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish.

Not so anymore.

The discordant beeping of an urgent call broke into his thoughts. He snapped to attention and hit accept.

“--whoever’s hearing this, PLEASE, we need help!! Repeat, any parties receiving this and willing to lend aid, PLEASE, we are under attack!!” a frantic voice barked out.

Instantly Phobos was on it. He didn’t have to ask who the attacker was--this song and dance was swiftly getting old. “Copy. Coordinates?” he responded.

The relief in the other voice was palpable as they rattled off the numbers. “As quick as you can, please, thank you,” they babbled.

“Don’t worry, help is on the way.” He tapped the digits in with a few crisp keystrokes and nodded. “I should be there shortly, you’re not far out.”

“Thank you,” the other voice gasped once more in relief, and the connection cut.

The planet was nearby, one they’d never had occasion to visit in their shared career though the name was vaguely familiar to him. As he approached, he spotted another ship in low orbit, taking potshots at its defense satellites with merciless precision, one after another hurtling into the atmosphere below. The assassin’s craft was familiar--that same ship that they’d tried to rescue all those years ago except the hull was now jet black, almost fading into the emptiness of space behind it. Anger swelled in Phobos’ chest as he fired a beam of his own at the vessel, red arcing through dark vacuum to blossom in ripples across its shields.

He felt the malevolence of the thing aboard it turn to him, and readied himself for the fight he’d been awaiting for years.

First blast. He dodged with ease.

Second blast. Dodged again.

Black Sky’s ship was four times his size and more heavily armored, but Phobos had the advantage of speed and agility--and back in the day, Phobos had been one of the best pilots in the business. He felt his muscles start to relax as he sank into the familiar role: feint dodge bank return fire spin drop bank feint, find an opening and exploit it. He danced around the larger ship like a starling, picking away at its defenses while searching for a weak spot--if he could find and disable the engines, this would all be over. There were no doubts, no worries. He was perfectly in his element, and for a moment the years dropped away and he could almost pretend his best friends were flying just behind him, watching his back.

But Black Sky somehow matched him move for move. It was almost as if he knew what Phobos was about to do before he did it. He saw through a feint and caught the smaller ship out, countering with a flurry of missiles that set warning alarms crying shrill through his cockpit. Phobos clenched his jaw and diverted power to his shields to compensate.

His adversary hailed him, and he hit accept, expecting triumphant gloating. Which was fine by him--monologuing tended to distract villains, making them sloppy, and Phobos nodded in satisfaction as he accepted.

But to his surprise, the shadowed figure on the screen was anything but triumphant. In fact, though his face was still shrouded in shadows, his bearing was entirely different: detached, indifferent, almost bored. “You are mine,” he informed Phobos--and a chill ran over the space knight at the utter lack of emotion in his tone. Gone was the cocky, taunting presence from their last meeting. Now the assassin sounded cold, clinical, matter-of-fact, as if discussing a roach infestation about to be gassed. The discordant mechanical buzz in his voice was painfully dissonant in Phobos’ ears, the effect seeming to have worsened since last they met--or perhaps it was simply stronger up close. “To your fate, resign yourself. Washed up, past your prime, obsolete space knight.”

Phobos forced a laugh despite being deeply shaken by the change. “I doubt that. You don’t know what you’ve done, assassin.” His fingers danced across the console as he spoke, sending out another volley of missiles.

Black Sky countered them with his own effortlessly, the projectiles exploding harmlessly in the void between them. “Doubtful,” was all he said.

_“You killed my best friend and you’ll pay for it,”_ Phobos hissed at his screen.

A flurry of insincere robotic giggles played from the other side. “Wrong,” the assassin declared, as if revealing the punchline to a grand personal joke--and his screen lit with a dull pink glow.

The bottom dropped out of Phobos’ stomach.

There was no mistaking that single amber iris, even when the sclera framing it was pitch black veined with toxic green and fuchsia.

Sung’s ruined suit hung off him in ribbons, splotched with the oily residue of the microbial goo, and he’d long since lost the cone and visor. His prismatic core, cracked and stained with the same darkness, now gave off a sick magenta light that lit his face from below, turning the familiar contours of his jaw and cheekbones strange. Phobos’ throat constricted at the way he seemed to be fused with the cockpit, thick ropes of black tar holding him to the chair. He stared into the screen, single eye somehow at once vacant and malevolent, his mouth drawn up at the corners into something that more closely resembled a rictus than a smile.

“Not dead,” the horrible thing that used to be Sung grinned mirthlessly, the buzzing monotone emanating directly from his throat without movement from his lips. “Improved. Ascended. Reborn.”

It was a moment before Phobos realized the strangled scream he’d just heard was his own.

“No. It can’t be. _You_ can’t be. No!” He pounded the console with one fist, clenched so tight the knuckles were pale. “You’re not Sung!”

“No,” Black Sky agreed. “I’m better.” And he punctuated the statement with another barrage of missiles.

Phobos couldn’t react quickly enough. The attack broke through his shields like tissue paper, filling the cockpit with red light and warning sirens. He bit off a curse and rolled away, returning with his own attack, but he couldn’t concentrate. Not with that awful parody of his friend filling every corner of his mind, laughing with mechanical indifference. No wonder the thing could predict his every move--Sung had known him better than he knew himself, and they’d been able to play off each other effortlessly in dogfights, each knowing innately what the other would do without exchanging a word. Through his rage and grief he realized there was one move left: retreat, regroup, and return another day.

Because he’d be _damned_ if he’d allow that creature to keep wreaking havoc wearing Sung’s face.

He hit the emergency warp, and was gone.


	3. Art interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh y'all, my friend Bea illustrated their favorite moment in chapter 2!!! (Go and read that before the comic if you haven't yet, because there's spoilers.) I've linked to their twitter below if you wanna check out more of their stuff. Thank you so much Bea!!!! <3333

Thank you so much to the incredibly talented [Envirobaby](https://twitter.com/enviro_baby)!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With despair nipping at Phobos' heels, he's not sure what to do next. Luckily, comfort comes from an unexpected quarter. Black Sky may still be out there waiting for him, but for just a moment, he can rest and regroup, and try to figure out his next move.

The emergency warp. It was a last ditch savior that Sung had personally built into all their ships, and no one could really explain how it worked--Sung himself included. Havve had taken his apart many times looking for an answer, but was always left scratching his head in frustration at the completely mundane engine parts strewn across the shop floor. Sung had always laughed and shrugged.

“I can’t tell ya, bud,” he’d said with a mischievous grin, delighted to put one over on his oldest friend. “I don’t understand it either. All I know is it works.”

The most he would say is it took you where you needed to be, and it only worked once, so don’t use it unless the situation was at its most dire. Where would it take you? “That’s up to the warp,” was his cryptic comment.

Phobos had no idea where his would send him, but he knew one thing deep in the bedrock of his soul: he had faith in Sung.

So a small, remote part of him appreciated the bitter irony of using it to flee from his old friend. He felt numb. Sung had been his compass, his lodestar, for so very long. Even after he was gone, Phobos had continued to follow the lessons Sung had taught him. The man had completely changed the course of his life.

Without Sung’s legacy, he was lost.

He didn’t eat. He barely slept. Thank the stars Black Sky hadn’t damaged his ship’s life support systems, because he wouldn’t have had it in him to repair them. He mostly stared indifferently out at the void of space.

He drifted listlessly, lost and alone.

Until something familiar slowly came into view.

Suddenly, all at once, he was aware that he had gotten caught in a planet’s orbit and was lazily circling. _Pity it wasn’t a star,_ he thought, mostly ironically. Mostly. It was nice to have thoughts that weren’t self-doubt or self-hatred, though. That made a change from the last...how long had he been drifting? Where even was--“oh stars,” he murmured to himself as recognition dawned.

He knew this planet. He knew it well. He’d taken vacations here, when he was young. That meant--

He took the ship off auto for the first time since he’d hit the warp, and began to dial in a number. He wasn’t at all sure what the result would be, but he was long past caring. Time stood still as the line connected, and Phobos held his breath for a long moment, waiting for a response.

“This better be good,” a voice on the other hand said tersely.

That was all it took. “Dei?” he asked, voice cracking as the tears finally began to flow.

“Y-yeah?” his elder brother Deimos asked, tone suddenly a lot less gruff and a lot less certain. “Phobos, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I--thank the stars that you picked up.” Phobos hiccupped shallowly. “Look I know you don’t want to hear from me, I know you still hate m--”

“That doesn’t matter,” Deimos cut in impatiently, speaking over him.

“I’m so sorry, I know I have no right to come to you like this, especially after all this time,” Phobos let out in a rush, between sobs. “But I’m lost and I just, I need my brother right now more than anything, Dei.”

There was a long pause--and then the static of a deep sigh played over the line. “Please just tell me what’s wrong, Phobs,” Deimos finally said.

“I’m...I’m in the system, may I...?” Phobos’ voice was hesitant, halting. He hadn’t been back to their planet in so very long, and some part of him felt he’d lost the right to be there.

“Of course. It’s your home too.”

Phobos bit back the negation that rose in his throat at that. After the Funk Event and its aftermath, he felt a deep-seated sort of ache returning to his home planet. It was a mixture of survivor’s guilt and a sort of odd complicity for having befriended the man who (unintentionally) caused it, but naming the dragon didn’t make it any easier to slay in this case--especially when it had cost him his elder brother, his constant companion for centuries. It didn’t feel like his home anymore, didn’t feel like somewhere he deserved to call home. Nevertheless, “thank you,” was all he said.

They’d been off-planet when it had happened, and returned when a distress call came from their friends. It was garbled and incoherent, and neither of them had any idea what they’d be facing, but they rushed home as quickly as they could. As soon as they touched foot to ground, Deimos fell to the ground choking. He’d taken his helmet off before exiting the craft--because why wouldn’t he? It was their home, they were safe there--and the stuff was in his lungs before he knew what hit him. Phobos, who still had his gear on, had been able to stabilize him just in time and drag his unconscious form back onto the clean, hermetically sealed ship to regain consciousness.

When Deimos woke to find his brother had not only failed to kill the beast who’d caused it, but instead had befriended him, the aftermath was, to put it delicately, not pretty.

In the end Deimos decided to stay back on their home planet. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, so he remained, a single solitary mourner for an entire civilization. The air was breathable again now, at long last, but he rarely removed his helmet even still--out of habit or penance, Phobos never could tell.

That helmet, so much like his old one, was the face Phobos saw as he exited the craft and his big brother wrapped him in the tightest hug he’d had in a very long time. They both felt uneasy and awkward, it was obvious, but it felt better to have his brother there with him. “Come in, sit down,” he said as he ushered Phobos into a dusty, obviously disused sitting room. There were two cups of tea steaming on a low table, and Phobos could’ve cried again--both at the scent he hadn’t smelled for centuries, and at the fact that his brother still remembered his favorite tea.

They sat down, and Phobos took off his helmet and set it on the table. After a moment’s pause, Deimos did the same. His brother’s face was much like Phobos remembered it, but older, sadder, more deeply lined. Every year of his self-imposed lone vigil showed on it, and that cut Phobos to the heart. “Dei--I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you here alone. I should’ve--”

Deimos held up a hand. “Please, Phobs. I’m as much to blame as you are, I should’ve reached out sooner. I’m just glad to have you here now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Phobos nodded and drank deeply, beginning his tale. The good, the bad, and the horrible, he told his brother all about the centuries that had passed since they’d parted. He started with his friends, the adventures they’d had, the life they’d built together. Then their last mission, Sung’s loss, the team fracturing and leaving. Adapting to working on his own, the solitary years in between. Then finally: his mission from the Galaxy Queen, his pursuit of Black Sky, the final awful confrontation and reveal. He lay his head on his big brother’s shoulder and cried out every frustration, every betrayal, every moment of inadequacy and loneliness he’d endured--and with the quiet, steady presence of his brother there, everything started feeling a little less hopeless. 

“Wow,” Deimos finally said when the torrent ceased, and for an awful second Phobos was sure he was about to say _I told you so._ “You’ve had a lot to deal with,” he said instead.

Phobos nodded miserably. “I don’t know where I go from here.”

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay here where it’s safe.”

Phobos finally cracked a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dei. But I have to fix this. I know you’ve had, er, misgivings about my new life--” His brother snorted ruefully. “--but I can’t just leave this unfinished. I have to do something.”

“You always did have that annoyingly noble side to you,” Deimos told him, with a wry smile that showed it was a begrudging compliment. “Come with me. There’s one bit of help I can lend, you left it behind last time.”

He led Phobos outside, to a freestanding building they’d used as their armory. They’d kept all manner of toys and tech there, when not in use on some jaunt or another. Their parents had quietly disapproved, but gamely pretended not to notice.

Displayed in a place of honor on a wall were two ornate swords--one silver, one gold. The two brothers had received them when they hit the age of majority. Deimos passed Phobos the golden one now, and the younger man took it with a sense of nostalgic wonder, recognition flooding back as he ran his fingers over the embellished swirls on the hilt. The designs were traditionally styled, the art of their people going back millennia, and the blades were generally meant for ceremonial purposes only. Like most of their people’s customs, the two had taken that more as a suggestion. Their swords were deadly sharp and balanced to be used for combat--they’d made sure of it, and tested it well over the centuries on more planets than Phobos cared to count, certainly more than their parents had ever known. He took a few experimental passes with it, and its comfortable weight in his hand felt like an old friend.

Then he found the secret switch, and the edge of the blade flared with crimson plasma--another non-sanctioned upgrade. His brother had opted for a cobalt blue instead, and he felt more than heard that blue ignite along his brother’s weapon behind him.

He turned to find his brother’s sword pointed at him.

“Show me you’ve still got it,” was all Deimos said, with a cocky grin.

They’d practiced with the blades often back here in their little hideaway, and as they clashed, the years dropped away. The weapon felt like an extension of his arm, as natural as breathing--and for a moment, he could believe that none of the events since he left home had ever happened.

It would be so easy to stay. To live here with his brother, to finally lay down arms and rest, to forget the horrible creature still out there waiting for him. Perhaps even try to rebuild what they could of their people’s legacy. He missed a parry and Deimos’ blade tapped lightly against his armor, the blow pulled at the last moment. “My point,” the elder smirked, forcing him back.

“It’ll be your last,” the younger returned, countering with a daring swing that knocked Deimos off-balance, making him scramble to keep his footing. Another tap, another point--Phobos’ this time. He swiftly followed it with another that knocked Deimos flat on his ass. “Hah, getting too old for this, brother?”

“Not likely. Enjoy it while it lasts.” In a moment Deimos was both up and vanished, and Phobos whirled wildly, trying to track where he’d gone. Just in time, he caught movement above him, and raised his blade horizontally just in time to block Deimos’ descending blade.

“Hah! Good try, but not good enough,” Phobos laughed, knocking it back and away, and bringing his own weapon around to counterattack.

Deimos dodged away and to the right, the blade just barely missing. “Hm, well done, I thought I had you with that one.” Then he suddenly sagged with a groan of pain, clutching his side.

“Dei??” Phobos’ weapon clattered harmlessly to the ground, red energy dissipating, as he went to his brother. “Did I--”

The words cut off in a gasp as Deimos’ sword came back up, the edge hovering a hair’s breadth from Phobos’ neck. Deimos snickered. “You always fall for that one. Too noble for your own good, little brother.” He straightened fully, stance and gaze both turning serious, every inch the warrior he had been in their youth. “Do you yield?”

Phobos sighed ruefully. “I yield, I yield. Cheater.” The blade withdrew, and the brothers sat together against the wall, breathing heavily. 

Deimos untied and shook out his long, dark hair, and laughed shallowly. “You know, your friends would not have let you do that,” he commented reflectively, braiding it over one shoulder. “You may have a heart too noble for your own good, but I’m certain they would’ve seen through my ploy.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think it’s very clear.”

“Dei…”

His elder brother snorted. “Are you really going to make me be the one to say it? As much as it pains me to admit, you need to get the band back together.”

_“What.”_

“It only makes sense. They’re the only other people in the universe who know Sung as well as you do. Perhaps if you all work together, you’ll have a chance at beating him.” Deimos paused. “Besides. Don’t you think they also have the right to know what became of him?”

“Frankly, _I’d_ almost prefer not to know.”

Deimos’ deep blue eyes held Phobos’ crimson ones, appraising him coolly. “You don’t mean that.”

“...no, I don’t,” Phobos sighed in resignation, looking away. “All right. You’re right, and we both know it. It won’t be easy, but it’s the best move I’ve got left.”

“That’s my baby brother.” Deimos squeezed him in a quick, one-armed hug. “I’m glad you came. I’ve missed you so much. Don’t die before you come visit me again.”

Phobos found himself smiling. “I missed you too, Dei. Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“I know.” Deimos smiled wryly back at him. “When you see the cat, tell him I still hate him.”


End file.
